Viva la revolucion
by Rose's Hoses
Summary: Though they aspire to become Chefs themselves, Dishies hate Chefs with a passion. In turn, Chefs disrespect Dishies until the day that they join the chef ranks. It's nothing personal. Or is it?
1. Chapter 1

Players in successful Rocket League squads are referred to as 'Chefs'. The risks of Rocket League, for them, are much lower. They're backed by money and power, buying them all the mods you could want, access to the Freeplay Arena, and the best trainers in Bunningsphere. Chefs are the closest things to celebrities barring Mitchell and the Gang.

Players in the, let's say, _less successful_ Rocket League squads are 'Dishies'. Although it's such a dangerous game, and very underpaid for Dishies, many people, mostly young men, decide to play anyway - it's their only shot at getting out of poverty.

It's an ingrained hierarchy, as rich kids have the money and privilege to become chefs right from the beginning. Poorer people have to work their way up from the bottom, and many of them die in the process.

Though they aspire to become Chefs themselves, Dishies hate Chefs with a passion. In turn, Chefs disrespect Dishies until the day that they join the chef ranks. It's nothing personal.

Or is it?


	2. Chapter 2

_-Scrubbie-_

Scrubbie had the misfortune of not only being a Dishie on the Rocket League field, but also a dishie in real life. He worked at a Snag Stand that presented him with uncomfortable parallels to his Rocket League career. Ungrateful, privileged chefs endlessly cooking snags, while it was all he could do to keep his head above the grease.

All he wanted was to go home, shower off the grease that seemed to settle in his every pore, and collapse in bed. He grabbed his meagre belongings and headed for the door, but the next thing he knew, there was a wall of muscle in front of him.

"Ah!" he yelped as he bounced off the person blocking the door.

"Omg whoops I'm sorry lol. Are you okay!?" the person exclaimed, and Scrubbie wanted to cry. Standing over him, offering a hand to help him up, was the very person Scrubbie hated most – or at least, tried to.

Scrubbie took hold of the corded, muscled forearm and was lifted to his feet. He could feel his face heat up with embarrassment. "I'm okay," Scrubbie said, smiling despite himself.

He knew it was wrong to be this friendly with a Chef. But he just kept popping up all over the place, and he was always polite to Scrubbie despite being this massively popular RL player, and Scrubbie was too tired to put on a glare.

So he smiled, and when Swabbie asked for his name, Scrubbie told him without hesitation.


	3. Chapter 3

_-Swabbie-_

The first time they'd met at Dan the Man's Big Band Snag Stand, it was when Swabbie got lost trying to find the bathroom. This man, rangy and wild-looking, directed Swabbie down the hall and there was just something about him that was so… captivating. From that moment on, Swabbie was a regular customer at the Snag Stand – he would meet his squad there throughout the week, each time finding a way to run into this mysterious man once again. He collected tidbits of information about him like treasures.

It was getting completely ridiculous. So Swabbie had stopped going to the Snag Stand – telling Harold, Dez, and their sub Handbag that he got food poisoning there. He'd tried to forget about the man. He had tried everything – _everything –_ to get that Dishie out of his head.

But that day, he couldn't get out of going back to the Snag Stand. And he couldn't help that the man ran straight into him. And he really, really couldn't help asking for the man's name.

Thoughts of Scrubbie were starting to consume him - he needed someone to talk him down. But Harold and Handbag were away making a VR game.

 _I wonder if Dez is home,_ Swabbie thought.

* * *

"Come in!"

Swabbie cautiously pushed open the door.

"Hey Dez," he said, relieved to see Dez shutting the lid of his Portahub and turning in his hovering desk chair, pants zipped up at least 85% of the way.

"Hey man, what's up?" Dez waved hello. The movement dislodged a pile of used tissues from the desk, and they fluttered to the ground like leaves.

"Nm, wbu?" Swabbie said.

"Nm," Dez replied, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. "You said you needed to talk?"

A shock of adrenaline went through Swabbie. He had to just get this over with before he was sick with nerves. "I… I'm confused," he admitted. "I met someone who is, well, kinda perfect for me, but they aren't what I expected… you know?"

Dez nodded sagely. "The heart wants what the heart wants, man," he said. "Best not to resist."

Swabbie sighed heavily and forced himself to keep talking. "What if I said this person was… um…. a – a Dishie. What would you – say. To that."

Dez's fingers tapped against his desk. "That… doesn't really change my answer. When you find the thing that completes you, you gotta fight for it. Sorry man, I'm probably not being helpful."

Swabbie shook his head. "No, you are. Thanks man. I'll let you get back to it." He left Dez's place wishing he could be as satisfied with his right hand as Dez was.


	4. Chapter 4

_-Scrubbie-_

The next time he saw Swabbie, he had actually managed to make it all the way out of work and was walking a few blocks to get home. He saw Swabbie's broad shoulders and ignored the spark of excitement at the sight. A moment later, Swabbie spotted him and jogged towards him with a cheerful wave.

Scrubbie's automatic response to the Chef jogging towards him should be fear, not… whatever this was. Scrubbie yelled internally to himself to make an excuse and leave.

"Are you stalking me?" He said instead, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth reluctantly.

"Maybe I am," Swabbie said mischievously. "Nah, just thought you'd like someone to walk with. Is it far to your place?"

 _I should be suspicious,_ Scrubbie thought. _I shouldn't let him know where I live. I should –_

"Yeah, would be good to have company."

 _Fucking goddamn it._


	5. Chapter 5

_-Swabbie-_

Swabbie's squad was rostered to play at the end of the month. He vowed not to get distracted by Scrubbie, focusing on training in the Freeplay Arena every day to make sure they would be best they could possibly be. They were up against some Dishie squad so it would probably be a walk in the park - but training was training.

In the last week before the match, training slowed down. Swabbie wished it wouldn't, because it gave him time to think - he didn't want to think, his dreams were enough trouble without Scrubbie's lithe form appearing on the edge of his thoughts during the day as well.

With only a few days left until the match, Swabbie couldn't stand it any more. He waited outside the Snag Stand for Scrubbie to appear, stunning despite – or maybe because of - the layer of grease up his arms.

He looked upset. "Why are you here?" he said, voice oddly strained.

"I'm sorry," Swabbie replied. "I - I couldn't stay away."

"This will only make it harder," Scrubbie protested, pulling Swabbie into a patch of shadows.

"I'm _sorry,_ listen, I just – I've been thinking about you constantly, it's driving me crazy, I just needed to see you."

"What about what _I_ need?" Scrubbie protested, running his hands through his hair.

"What you need?" Swabbie said. "Honestly…" he reached up and stilled Scrubbie's frantic motions with gentle hands on his wrists. "I'd be willing to bet that you -" he lowered his voice to a whisper that shivered through Scrubbie like a physical chill, "need this too."

Scrubbie stared like a deer in headlights for a long moment before pulling himself together with visible effort.

"You don't know what I need," he hissed, pulling his hands out of Swabbie's grasp. "You dickhead, what I need is - _what I need is impossible_. And seeing you now is only going to make it a million times harder to play the way I have to play this weekend."

The air left Swabbie's lungs. It's as if his body understood the words before his mind did.

"You - you didn't know?" Scrubbie said uncertainly. "You didn't - you don't even know which _squad_ I'm on?"

Swabbie shook his head in confusion. "No, it – I – you're not -"

Scrubbie reared backwards, anger clouding his features. "The Plugholes vs Sausage Syndicate, Wasteland Arena, timeslot 150 - does that ring a bell anywhere in that thick head of yours? Huh?"

Swabbie felt dizzy. " _You're_ one of The Plugholes? We're _playing against each other?!_ "

"It was bound to happen eventually!" Scrubbie yelled. "It could have happened weeks ago! I wish it did, then maybe I wouldn't _care,_ maybe I wouldn't have fallen -" he broke off into a frustrated growl.

The thought of Scrubbie actually playing in one of those shitty Dishie cars was suddenly horrifying now that Swabbie knew he would be up against _his team._ What if something happened to him? What if _Swabbie hurt him?_

Scrubbie seemed to be able to read all the thoughts on his face, clear as day.

"You've never even thought about it, have you? That we're real people? That Bunningsphere isn't all sunshine and roses for everyone like it is for you and your Chef buddies?" His words faltered and fell to a whisper. "I have a thousand scars to show from this life that we lead and that's – _that's why this can never work."_

Swabbie couldn't speak. He could only watch as the man he loved walked away. That weekend, he could only watch as the man he loved was killed in a goal explosion.

As sadness raged inside him, he decided he would do more than watch. He would change Bunningsphere forever.

And he did.


End file.
